The Grey
by Hahren Jezek
Summary: Struggling to overcome the vacuum left by the slaughter of his family, Aedan Cousland finds himself thrust into a war in which the survival of not only himself, but all of Thedas depends on the decisions he makes. Rated T, sometimes M for graphic descriptions of gore&smut. Novel format of Origins.


The Grey

His hands were tied together with ropes made of his wife's hair. His mother, Bryce, Oren, and his sister all hung from the rafters, their entrails wrapped tightly around their necks, choking the life out of them. Aedan stumbled backwards, slipping in the gore and breathing heavily. Everything sounded as though it was under water, and he couldn't move. The stench wouldn't leave. It permeated through the air, sinister chuckles following the clouds as they tickled the week's worth of scruff that had accumulated on his jawline.

Looking down, Aedan's bound hands reached into a hole in his gut, grasping his innards and pulling them free. More and more he tugged, disemboweling himself as his mother and father swayed, and Oren's foot gave a twitch. His brother was missing, but he would join them soon enough, he was sure. They would write about the fall of the Couslands.

"You did nothing," the voice carried itself, resonating in the marrow of his bones.

With one last tug, Aedan made enough room, and he reached into his chest and removed his heart, dropping it carelessly onto the pile of gore. He would not need it in the Abyss.

"Aedan," she whispered, golden hair wet and matted with blood. Alisia stumbled and fell into his arms, and the nobleman stared down at her, watching as her wounds returned and grew more and more severe with each suffocating breath he took. The blade that slashed across her face tore it open once more, the stab wounds to her breast, the Mabari biting open her belly, tearing out the life inside of her that had never bloomed…

All of them were dead.

If he dug just a little deeper, he could be, too.

"Aedan," It wasn't her voice.

The hands of The Maker Himself clasped him by the shoulders and shook him, forcing the stench and the accusing eyes to disappear. The hole in his belly sewed itself shut, and the mess of gore whisked away as though it had never been.

"Aedan, can you hear me?" He knew that voice.

The hands kept shaking him, and it took every bit of strength left in his spirit to pry open his eyes, staring up at the Grey Warden that had escorted him to safety. Duncan was his name—just the day before, they had eaten lunch in one of the gardens, discussing the older man's concerns of the upcoming battle at Ostagar. They spoke of effective ways to train the men, ways to ensure clerics and priests could tend to the wounded, even on the battle field.

They did not speak of betrayal, or of slaughter.

Aedan sat up slowly, his own breath trying to choke the life out of him as his diaphragm seized. His lungs shuddered inside of him, and the brawny young man had to bring up both of his hands and cup them in front of his mouth and over his nose to be able to catch his breath, breathing in the air that his body had already tasted and used once before.

"You have my apologies," Aedan rasped out, looking over at Duncan with eyes that were a bright blue. Once, not so long ago, they held what seemed like the light of the stars, sparkling with life and happiness. Tonight, they were as cold and unforgiving as the glaciers far to the south of the Kor'kari wilds.

For a time, Duncan said nothing to the young man, and for that, he was grateful.

Rousing himself from the patch of dirt he had been lying in, Aedan found his waterskin and tipped it up, dumping its contents down over his face and neck, thoroughly soaking himself and binding himself to reality. Each time he shut his eyes, her face stared up at him, listless and torn open to the bone.

"We will reach Ostagar today, when there is a little more lighting, you will see the tower of ishaal to the south," Duncan informed him, keeping his voice as soft and soothing as a battle-hardened man could manage. The efforts fell flat on his companion, who set about working himself into the chainmail, fitting it over the soft leathers and cloths that he had worn to sleep. He buckled the plate guards over that—a breastplate , spaulders, vambraces and gloves. The chainmail was still visible underneath, and a flap hung in the back and front , falling to the middle of his thighs. Though the armor held many straps and buckles, Aedan assembled it and dressed himself with a practiced ease.

To anyone watching, with the way his eyes stared into nothing, the man with auburn hair did everything on muscle memory alone, it would seem.

"The fighting outside of Highever delayed our progress too long already," Aedan said, his voice still scratchy and heavily laden with grief, as fresh as a knife plunged between his ribs, "If we start now, from the maps I've seen, we may reach it before mid-morning," he added, looking over at Duncan.

"As you say," Duncan whispered.

Turning without another word, Aedan's eyes fell to the ground, and he stretched his legs out in front of him, forcing one foot in front of the other. Three hours south of Lothering, they came upon a crippled hag sitting at the side of the road. Duncan paused to offer her water, and she smiled at the two men. Her maddened happiness only made Aedan's grief seem heavier.

Aedan shuffled his weight from foot to foot impatiently while Duncan muttered concerned words for the woman, offering her coin that she refused, food that she had no interest in, and information on lodging that she would never need. When the old man tried to turn away from her to continue on with Aedan, her arthritic hand reached out, fingers curling like talons and gripping him with a strength that did not fit her frail frame.

Aedan's hand dropped to the sword strapped to his hip, the corner of his mouth twitching downwards into a stern looking scowl.

"Three silver horses all in the woods," she hissed, pointing her gnarled finger at them, "One will die, one will go mad, and one will achieve greatness," her hands gave a flourish at the last word. Duncan, it seemed to Aedan, appeared only marginally uncomfortable at her prophecy, and with a gruff mutter of thanks and well wishes, he finally managed to pry her fingers loose from his forearm, trying his best to be gentle with the old woman.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and Aedan grunted, stiffly jerking his head in the direction of the ruins, not more than another hour south of the next crossing. The faster they could remove themselves from any civilization, the better he would feel. Plunging himself into the heat of battle was ideal, after what he had seen. With luck, a sword may find its way into hi gut.

The two men turned and continued down their path, neither one of them looking back at the old woman sitting at the side of the road.

"Greatness," she whispered, staring past them.


End file.
